Not the Sun

This is not the wolf 
Howling at the moon
Or a poet’s final verse
You didn’t love me first 
And many more will follow
I fear I won’t subsist 
On a love lukewarm and hollow
Though I knew from
When we started that
I’d never be the sun for you
I thought maybe your moon, your stars
But even that has proved too hard
A love so flimsy, skinny, small
Really isn’t love at all.
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